Bubble

Bubble bubble bubble
Little drops of trouble
Two-day old stubble
Sex on the double
And baby boy dribble

Love love love
Me in your glove
Smells from the stove
Fire in a cove
On the wings of a dove

Meow meow meow
Ah's and a wow
Hard work with the plough
No time but now
And sweat on your brow

Blow blow blow
With breath as the snow
My skin wheat dough
White cheeks aglow
For you down below

End

I sit in front of a huge office building, all blue glass. The world is reflected in the glass, some people, some faraway houses, everything and everyone but me. Maybe I'm the unfortunate one, who unwittingly chose to sit in front of the few opaque tiles. Or maybe I'm just not there.

Little black birds sweep close to the ground, like a jubilant celebration of a funeral. I see a woman taking down clothes from a clothes-line, on the terrace of one faraway house. There's a red cloth flying against the cloudy sky, I can't say if it's a struggle for freedom or a child-like game against the wind.

I hope she doesn't take down the red cloth. I hope the birds don't stop circling around me. The red cloth reminds me of the beauty of freedom, and solitude. The birds remind me that the world doesn't end when people like me go. These are the little things that I'm anchoring my little life on.

The woman leaves the red cloth on the line. Thank you. I think I will be alright some day. Instead of getting beaten about by the wind, I will soar in it again. Alone and finally happy. Or atleast content.

I'm now walking back to enacting my life. People stare at me and then look away. Most people don't like being reminded of pain. Some stare hard and keep staring, maybe taking a morbid pleasure in someone else's suffering or maybe they recognise pain as an everyday trade. How unhappy am I? I look into the glass to find a measure. I see green leaves and people passing, but I'm not there. Maybe that's a cruel answer.